Don't we all, though?

I have wishes of a simple nature.

I yearn to be shoeless, barefoot and bribing a uniformed officer in a small, garbage-strewn railway station between provincial towns in northern India; leaves blowing across the platform and swirling around the stumps of legless beggars; bound for Varanasi, and without baggage, I would have no tickets and no friends; nothing but the money in pockets torn ragged and the sand in my hair.

Saying "Namaste," a young boy would slide across the floor to where I sat, cross-legged and contemplating the beauty of the dung-cake huts that flitted past the windows, arraying themselves chronologically in my memory; stirred at stops I would be, by small cups of chai in chipped clay cups, dutifully thrown through the window's bars and onto the tracks - collected as the train hissed out into the dusk by leperous shadows wrapped in bandages and sadness; with Varanasi on the horizon; its glimmering lights and boats with candles and lanterns; its burning bodies and tearful widows, with eyeless tourists struck with fever wandering aimlessly like zombies among the funeral pyres, having their pockets picked and their hamstrings sliced asunder.

I miss much of what I have seen in this world and desire very much to lose myself again in its utterly joyous madness.